  It was after their lunch that Tom Howe drew from an inner pocket something resembling a thin pack of cards. Though they were alone in a booth with their backs to the wall he glanced sharply about him before unfolding the packet which proved to be ten small pictures glued to a single strip of black cloth. “These,” he said, half concealing the pictures, “are my special charge, though your friend, the Silent Terror, is beginning to crowd in upon them.” “Five,” said Jimmie in a whisper. “The five?” “Absolutely,” Tom’s voice was husky. “Front view and profile of each. Reading from left to right, Black Dolan; Piccalo, the Pipe; Pagan, the Fence; Stumps Sharpe; and Tungsten Tom. Every one of them has a criminal record. When five such men get together there’s bound to be trouble.” He folded up the packet and returned it to his pocket. “I don’t mind telling you I’m off in a few minutes to look over a small job they are suspected of pulling.” “Small? Thought you said they were big.” “When something big is planned it calls for money. Crooks get money in their own way. This time they opened up the safe of a movie company and got away with several fat bundles of currency. “You might like to go along,” Tom suggested. “Might give you a scoop for your paper. Far as I know the thing’s been kept quiet.” “A scoop! Oh, boy!” This was the second time that a story had loomed large on Jimmie’s horizon. He thought of John Nightingale; good old hard-working John who had done him so many favors. “A scoop for John,” he said aloud. “That will be grand!” “Got your camera?” “Sure! Always have it.” “You’ll be able to get some pictures, I think. They always help. Shall we be off?” “Right now,” Jimmie sprang to his feet. They were away. The suite of offices they entered a few moments later were quite modern. Clicking typewriters, mahogany desks, and the latest floodlights told plainly that at least one moving-picture organization was doing very well. They were in the central office of a large syndicate controlling many theaters. “Are you from the Detective Bureau?” inquired a short, fat man with pudgy fingers. Tom nodded. “They took it all! Everything!” The man wrung his fat hands. “Where’s the safe?” Tom demanded shortly. “It is in the back. Come this way, please. The police have been here. Everything has been guarded. Nothing was touched.” The man led the way back. “Hello, Tom,” the police officer on duty greeted. “Hello, Jerry. What kind of a job?” asked Tom. “Neat. Professional, all right. Cut up the safe with oxyacetylene torch. Easy as opening a can of peas.” “H’m,” said Tom as he entered the place. “Not much of a safe. Easy money, I’d say. But we’ll try to make ’em pay. We usually do, in the end, don’t we, Jerry?” “I’ll say you do, Tom,” Jerry grinned. “Who’s the Boy Scout?” He eyed Jimmie suspiciously. “He’s from the Press,” Tom explained. “Special friend of mine. Keen with his candid camera. Only person that’s ever photographed the Silent Terror.” “The Terror!” Jerry whistled through his teeth. The look he bestowed upon Jimmie was one of genuine respect. “All right, Jerry,” Tom said with a grin. “Strike a pose so Jimmie can get a picture. Usual stuff. Stand and point at the wrecked safe.” Jerry smiled. Then his face sobered as he struck the pose. Jimmie got his picture, three shots. Not quite satisfied with the “usual stuff” he wandered about the small room looking for others. In the corner, propped against the wall was a section of the safe containing the lock. “Got in their way, so they removed it,” Jerry chuckled. Suddenly, as Jimmie looked at this section, his figure stiffened, for all the world like that of a panther who has scented a covey of grouse. Setting his camera for a close-up, he squinted through the finder, then clicked it three times. “Mind sitting on the floor and looking at that through this?” he said to Tom as he took a three-inch magnifying glass from his pocket. “No, I—” Tom hesitated. “Do your stuff,” Jerry roared in good-natured glee. So Tom posed while Jimmy took his picture. “All right,” said Jimmie. “I’ll hurry over with the pictures.” “Tell your friend John to get me on the phone. I’ll give him the details,” said Tom. Jimmie did a fade-out while Tom and his police friend remained to search for tools that might have been left behind, to study the cigaret stubs and burnt matches on the floor, and the window that had been jimmied, to test everything for possible fingerprints and, in short, to conduct a thorough investigation of a piece of work done by experts in their line. Needless to say, the Press scored a scoop and Jimmie got his full share of credit. To Tom’s surprise, he saw that instead of the picture of Police Officer Jerry doing his regular stuff, they had used his own picture, the one of him pointing at the broken scrap of steel containing the safe’s lock. Beneath the picture he read, “Famous young detective discovers valuable clue.” “Now what?” Tom thought. “Just one more of those newspaper half-truths, I suppose. I can’t say I like them.” The fact is that that line beneath the picture told the whole truth, only it was done in advance of the discovery. With Jimmie’s help, Tom was to uncover a valuable clue from that same scrap of steel, though at that moment he knew nothing about it. |
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